Demon Forged

unmistakable on his lips. “Stronza.”
    Bitch.
    Irena’s breath hissed from between her teeth in a thin stream. This one, he did not know when to quit. She halted in front of him and bent over to grip the arms of his chair. Her smile was still vicious, but he didn’t glance at her face. Unease slithered through his psychic scent as he took in the winding blue serpents tattooed from her wrists to her shoulders.
    “You are a handsome man,” she told him, and didn’t attempt to suppress the accent that chopped at her Italian, “but you use your tongue in the wrong way.” Irena crooked her index finger beneath his necklace. Gold. Such a worthless metal. Far too soft, even when blended with stronger materials. Irena favored steel, iron, or platinum. She tugged lightly on the chain. “Stand, and I will show you what your mouth is good for.”
    Like a dog, he obeyed. Her fingers drifted down over his chest as he rose from his seat, and she shape-shifted subtly, increasing her height so that his tobacco-scented breath gusted heavily over her lips. His breathing stopped when she reached the waistband of his tight jeans, and she paused to test his emotions. Fear trembled in him, but also lust.
    And this one had no resistance to lust. Even as his flesh hardened beneath her hand, his arousal left him as malleable as gold. Left him easily manipulated. Demons loved humans such as these.
    Irena did not. She dragged her fingertip up his brass zipper, and her Gift melded the teeth together.
    The human wouldn’t sense the psychic touch. If Deacon had already reached their meeting spot, however, he would know she was near.
    And if she’d revealed herself to any other creatures who might be in Rome, she looked forward to meeting them. Killing them.
    Excitement fermented within her, and she imagined rending a demon’s crimson skin when she placed her mouth to the male’s. The flesh behind his zipper swelled as her tongue slid over his, pulling, sucking.
    He reached for her chest and she stepped back. He panted, his eyes glazed.
    She wiped his taste from her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a sneer. “Not good for much, after all.”
    His face reddened. Rage choked him; she’d turned away and walked half a block before he managed to roar “Stronza!” after her.
    She continued on. The insult did not anger her so much now that a plea lay beneath it. A small-minded man, frustrated by such a small thing.
    He would know true frustration as soon as he sought release for his bladder or his arousal.
    Her good mood was restored and her steps were lively as they carried her to the piazza. The evening was cold and clear; on the tundra, this was the kind of night when only the sharp, freezing air separated the earth from the heavens. A night for hunting. All that this moment lacked was the use of her blades. But if a nephilim or demon had felt her Gift, perhaps bloodshed wasn’t far off. She couldn’t detect any nearby, but they could block their minds and hide from her psychic probes.
    She had expected to find Deacon—a vampire’s mind wasn’t as powerful as a Guardian’s, and his shields weaker—but she didn’t sense him, either. Only humans.
    She rounded the stone blocks at the corner of the monument, her gaze sweeping the piazza. It froze near the monument entrance. A tall male stood in front of the iron gate. His dark eyes met hers.
    Olek. Her step didn’t falter. She didn’t betray her surprise with movement or breath, but her heart became a sledgehammer against her ribs. Did it pound with anger, shame, or need?
    It did not matter. With Olek, they were all the same.
    He was Alejandro to every other Guardian, but always Olek to her. Try as she might—and she had tried—she couldn’t think of him as anything else.
    Olek, the silk-tongued swordsman whose idea of honor was to die for nothing.
    Like Irena, he dressed not in modern clothing, but clothing comfortable to him. A black long-sleeved shirt hugged his torso, loose enough to allow movement but leaving little for an enemy to grab. His fitted trousers were tucked into knee-high boots. She knew their soles were as soft as hers—and as sure-footed. Both she and Alejandro would sacrifice a hardened boot and the damage a heel could inflict in order to feel every aspect of the ground beneath their feet.
    Old-fashioned garb, but it hardly drew a second glance from the humans milling near the monument with cameras in hand. There had been centuries when Guardians